Edna
I am, too, kind of. Some day when that song is published and people are singing it everywhere, I’ll say to my friends, “I knew the man that wrote that. We were riding on a train and he looked out and saw the moon, and he thought of this song, and then the train got to New York and he never saw poor little me again.”
After a pause.
Fred
You won’t be telling the truth, because I’m going to see you again.
Edna
You say that now. But you’ll forget all about me.
Fred
No, I won’t. Are you going right home when we get in?
Edna
Why—I intended to.
She sits up, expectantly.